


Healing Touch

by Rigel99



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: It's 00Q, M/M, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 00:09:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11263899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigel99/pseuds/Rigel99
Summary: You Know The Drill.





	1. Chapter 1

The mission? A disaster. Bond would have no choice to go to Medical. But not before he tore the Quartermaster a new one for a glitchy earpiece. He hobbled towards his office, knocked once and stormed in.

Q immediately stood, concern lacing his features.

“You’re injured,” he said, circling his desk and immediately dropping to his knees to roll up Bond’s trouser leg to check the wound.

Bond - for once in his life - was momentarily speechless, his angry diatribe driven from his mind by the sight of the wide-eyed boffin looking up at him.

He could work with this…

“And? What are you planning on doing about it?”

Q knew he’d fucked up. He was also more than aware that Bond had been eyeing him up for months.

He could work with that…

He rose smoothly and took hold of his wrist, pulling him towards his desk. He traded positions, pushing Bond back to perch on its edge, taking the pressure off his leg but never taking his eyes from the agent’s.

“I can take your mind off the pain,” he said, trailing his fingers down his shirt, stilling on his crotch.

Bond’s grip on the desk edge tightened.

Were he completely honest with himself, Bond would admit that he had fantasised more than was healthy even for him, about his Quartermaster’s hands. He’d often watched him on a laptop, engrossed in work, awaiting his attention to assign him his mission tools; fingers long, strong and slender; obviously as well used to a balance of manual construction as they were to the delicate requirements of his computer-based existence.

Bond had imagined the pleasure with as much clarity as the destruction those hands could bring…

And as those fingers worked him free of his trousers, he wondered no more.

“Let me take care of you…”

Bond wasn’t about to argue with that proposal. Sometimes, he was actually good at following orders.

Q took a step back to admire the partially undone shirt and slowly engorging erection.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Bond groused.

Q raised an eyebrow. “Quid pro quo, 007. You don’t think I know you’ve been ogling me for months?”

Bond wisely held his tongue, waiting.

Q stepped towards him a moment later and nudged him forward with a hip, sliding between him and the desk to sit behind him. His fingers found their target.

The pain in his knee was soon forgotten, eased by the gentle beginnings of endorphin released.

Q’s ministrations were reduced to three points; the lips on the nape of his neck triggering the delightful wave of pleasure that travelled to the small of his back in which Q’s own erection nestled there, firm but patiently undemanding.

And connecting those two sensations Q’s hand; pressure strong on the upstroke, gentle and relaxed on the downstroke; the rhythm made Bond feel as though he was the one completely in control, Q’s impeccable response to the quickening of his breath an utter delight.

Bond did his best to bite back his grunts.

Q was masterful.

“I’m glad I can’t see your face right now,” he whispered against his collar. “Just imagining you lost in your pleasure, pleasure that I’m giving you…”

“Consid— consider yourself for— forgive—“ Bond couldn’t finish the sentence, his arm buckling, his brain exploding in a cacophony of orgasmic release; one of Q’s hands pulling him back to rest against his own torso, his unrelenting touch easing the agent back to reality.

Q removed his hand to grab the tissues on his desk, cleaning them both while Bond’s breath levelled.

Bond composed himself, tucking himself back into his suit before turning to face the instrument of his pleasure.

Q was a model of composure, leaning back on his hands, legs now casually crossed, tracking the agent’s movements, cataloguing the undoing of the man for which he was solely responsible. He was looking rather smug. Which frankly Bond considered was his area of expertise.

He couldn’t have that.

Bond stepped forward into his space and made to pull him forward with the intention of kissing the living daylights out of the man.

Q immediately raised his hand to Bond’s lips.

“No.”

“No?”

Q was still smirking. Bond’s ire was rising.

“No,” he repeated with quiet emphasis, a hand landing on his chest to push Bond away and rise to his feet. “You say the word with all the disdain of a child denied an ice-lolly, 007. Don’t spoil the moment with petulance.”

“Pardon me,” he said sarcastically. “My intention was to enhance the moment.”

“No need,” Q replied lightly, returning to his chair. “I’m done with you. Off to Medical with you.”

Bond wasn’t sure what was happening, but one thing he did know, he definitely wasn’t done with Q.

* * *

**The First Time:** **The Gallery**

Bond’s first fleeting thought was fight. A natural response from a trained assassin when an unknown invaded your personal space.

His second fleeting thought was flight. Obviously some obnoxious kid looking for attention. No need to cause a scene.

His third fleeting thought, repositioning his backside on the bench? Fuck.

“If you knew anything about a Double O, you’d know better than to approach one without warning.”

“My understanding was M had informed you that we were to meet here,” Q replied, eyes studying the Turner with intent.

Bond brooded.

“I do expect more from a Double O than not to judge a book by its cover. How can you be an effective agent if you don’t expect the unexpected,” he continued, reaching into his ridiculous looking parka.

 _Fantastic. A smart arse,_ Bond thought to himself before turning to face his colleague.

Q held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Bond read the flirtation perfectly. The sultry defiance was a clear challenge.

He handed Bond the gun case. The radio, he slipped into his fingers giving him the opportunity to admire a pair of hands made to map the contours of his body and the lightest touch glanced over his thumb.

“Safe trip, 007.”

Bond watched him go, contemplating the future opportunities that might present themselves to get to know that briefest of touches more thoroughly.

Fortune favours the brave after all.

Bond could at least be confident he was that.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Second Time:** **The Gun**

Q had expanded his offices. The necessity to put a little physical distance between his department and the scene of Silva’s crime was not up for debate, he’d made that clear to Mallory and Mallory to his credit had extracted the government funding needed to make it happen. Also being out of the immediate nosiness of Denbigh’s minions did help keep his temper and mood level. More space for his cars, the motorcycles, weapons testing and…

Q heard the mechanism of the door kick into action but didn’t immediately look up from his bench.

…And a giant ass door to accommodate the occasional entry of the massive ego of one James Bond.

Q tilted his eyes to peer over his glasses then, the stealthy agent silently stroll up to the latest addition to his weapons arsenal; a Steyr AUG A3 with which he was tinkering.

He hadn’t observed the agent much, always being too busy or distracted to do so. And he hadn’t really had much of a chance to engage with him in any capacity other than professional since Skyfall. He enjoyed the space afforded to watch him now, moving like a sleepy cat, sliding off his gloves before picking up the rifle.

Q’s territory was sacrosanct and he didn’t suffer the handling of his toys, especially without permission.

He moved towards him, a much more alert cat. “Ah, Bond.” It felt like a smooth wrestle when Q divested the man of the weapon, but not before he slid his hand suggestively down along the length of the barrel, twisting it ninety degrees to release Bond’s grip.

“Shall we get started?”

“I thought we already had…” Bond murmured, his eyes unmasked and unabashedly wanton.

Q brushed off the comment with a simple, “This way,” before racking the gun on its stand and turning towards a door to the side.

* * *

  **The Third Time:** **The Smart Blood**

Bond had been a bad boy.

Fortunately for him, his Quartermaster happened to like bad boys. (Not that he was about to divulge that to Bond. Yet anyway.)

“I’m sure you understand the need to keep track of Her Majesty’s assets. Can’t have them running amok. I would be hauled over the coals for my lack of due diligence.”

“Can’t have that, Quartermaster.”

“Indeed we cannot, 007.”

“I think I quite like the idea of you always knowing where I am,” Bond said with quiet confidence, looking up into his face while he rolled up his sleeve to locate a vein. Even despite the barrier of surgical gloves, Bond could feel the electricity from Q’s touch dance across his skin. He clenched his fist, the muscles in his forearm flexing to push the veins closer to the surface.

“Better?” Bond asked.

“Thank you, yes,” he replied, sliding the syringe into the most prominent vein smoothly and without fuss. Bond’s inability to ruffle him he found fascinating.

“Mmmm,” Bond said, watching. “Didn’t even feel the slightest…”

“Don’t be a prick, 007,” Q said with a smirk, unclipping the tube to allow the flow to begin.

“Seeing as you asked so nicely,” he replied, sitting back while Q snapped off the gloves and rolled them into a ball. He tossed them into a bin in the far corner of the room, 10 feet away.

“I always ask nicely, 007. Good manners cost a man nothing.”

He left the room and his unruly agent to his private thoughts, involving not only the asking, but the begging.

* * *

**The Fourth time:** **The Ring**

Bond was standing at the bar of the clinic when he heard the unmistakeable pitch-perfect clipped tones of his Quartermaster.

“He’ll have the proteolytic digestive enzyme shake.”

“Did you know this bar - if you could call it that - is called the Ice-Q?”

“Fascinating, 007…”

“Why are you here, Q? Don’t tell me you missed me?”

“Alright then. I won’t.”

“But as you are here. Do me a favour…” Q glanced down at the ring Bond had twisted of his finger.

He looked up at the agent for a few seconds before extending the flat of his palm towards him.

Bond accepted the teasing invitation for what it was.

His turn to touch.

He placed the ring in the centre of his palm, permitting his fingers a slow retreat, his middle finger trailing down that same digit of Q.

Too late, Q found himself biting his lip, immediately regretting that subconscious reaction to Bond’s touch. Bond just smiled and said, “Find out what you can from this?”

“I really, really hate you right now,” Q mumbled, glancing down at his mouth as he pocketed the ring.

“You really, really want to hate me, Q. There’s a difference.”

He stepped into his space. Q stood his ground, held his gaze.

“Where are you staying?” Bond asked.

He was so close, Q could almost feel the breath caressing his cheek.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he retorted, stepping back shouldering his bag and sauntering towards the exit to the elevator.

“Delicious…” Bond murmured, watching the retreating hips until they vanished from sight.

The shake the barman had placed in front of him in the intervening seconds was decidedly the opposite.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Fifth Time:** **The Office**

To say he was irked by the duality of Q’s behaviour would be an understatement; tantalising in one breath, cockblocking in the next. Bond hobbled away from his office towards Medical still left wondering what he was playing at.

The game of light touches and furtive teasing glances had finally culminated in a demonstration by Q of the true extent of his equipment-handling capabilities.

But Bond had been denied his right to return.

_Why?_

He stopped dead in his tracks, realisation hitting him like the crack of a whip across his brain.

Now he just needed the opportunity to put his theory to the test. 

He smiled to himself as he entered Medical which, as you can imagine, was a cause of great disquiet for the doctor on duty.

* * *

**The Sixth Time:** **The Security Detail**

“Why did you request this detail?”

“I didn’t,” Bond replied.

They were sitting on opposite sides of the back seat of the car assigned to drive them to a government-hosted function in Grosvenor Square.

Q frowned, pushing the point, “M said—“

“Then M was scant on the details, Q. 003 asked me to fill in for her. I owed her a favour,” Bond interrupted, still looking out the car window at the Friday evening London throng in their unconscious battle to carve a path home from work.

“Oh.”

Q seemed to relax after that. Maybe Bond didn’t need to have an ulterior motive for _everything._

* * *

The event was duller than  re-normalising database indexes to sort specific tables by postcode instead of user_id.

Those were the days… Simpler times.

The highlight of the evening was the jolt of electricity Q felt when Bond’s fingers glanced over his as he handed him a champagne glass.

Q dutifully ignored him for the rest of the night.

And when it’s over - finally - Q just wants to curl up with his cats and his laptop for two days.

Bond is walking ahead of him as they exit the building and is about to open the back door of the waiting car.

It somehow irks.

“I think I’d rather walk for a bit. Clear my head,” Q said, turning away to head down the street.

Bond just nods, shutting the door and hitting the car once of the roof. “Don’t blame you. I gathered enough wool this evening to start up my own knitting emporium,” he deadpanned.

They stroll in relative silence for a few minutes, trailed by their driver. Q texts him a location about 20 minutes away and he takes the hint, driving ahead.

The silence is oddly comfortable, despite the itch to reach out and touch Bond is tamping down.

“Ah. Would you mind if I nipped in here to buy some tea?” Q enquired as they approached a 24/7 shop a few buildings along the street.

“Of course not,” Bond said casually. “I’ll wait outside.”

Q trots ahead, Bond watching him. He disappears into the shop.

It is less than ten seconds before the panic beep Q had installed on Bond’s watch starts to sound. Bond goes into agent mode, sprinting for the door.

Time slowed.

Q was standing on the other side of the counter, a man with a sawn-off shotgun pointed nervously at his chest. On hearing the door open, the perpetrator swung his head distractedly, the aim of the gun about to follow swiftly after. But Q, wits and all still about him, grabbed the muzzle, stepped to the side and pulled the man, surprised and completely thrown off guard, over the counter.

The weapon discharged, showering the shelves in fizzy drink. Bond was on him barely before he hit the floor.

He looked up at Q, who was straightening his tie and pulling out his phone.

Q held his gaze calmly, a slight quirk on the corner of his mouth at the look on Bond’s face.

“Never underestimate your Quartermaster’s ability to hold his own, 007,” he said, putting his mobile to his ear.

“Hello. We require police assistance in the matter of an attempted armed robbery…”

* * *

**The Seventh Time:** **The Bed**

“I will never underestimate my Quartermaster’s ability to hold anything ever again,” Bond moaned.

Q was open, bare and beautiful above him.

Mutual respect was difficult to attain, but absolutely worth the effort.

And Bond would never take for granted the permission to touch granted in return.


End file.
